The title of this post sounds like a question on one of those psychology tests to determine which mental illness you’re likely to develop.
Circle the item in each series which causes you the most emotional discomfort.
1) post-mortem photography, baseball, calzones, Nik Wallenda,
2) high voltage electrocution, golden retriever puppies, dryer lint, Tammy Faye Bakker
3) the Continental Divide, head lice, Rotel tomatoes, Hello Kitty
4) third-word disembowelment procedures, Pop Tarts, choking on someone else’s vomit, Dean Martin
5) IOS 8, necrophilia, Winston Churchill, conversation hearts
Or maybe it’s more like a game of Apples-to-Apples if I were the one making up the cards.
Anyway, I was trying to come up with a title that would accurately and succinctly summarize my day. And that was it.
This morning I read an article someone posted on Facebook about post-mortem photography. It was a popular thing back in the Victorian era. In many of the photos, the subject was meant to look alive…with their eyes open, surrounded by family members who actually were alive.
What the crap?
My first reaction was to wonder if Victorian era people were such terrible procrastinators that they put off having portraits made until their subjects were dead and they couldn’t postpone it any longer. I know photography wasn’t as simple and easy back then. But surely it wasn’t that dreaded.
“Well, Children, I guess we should have a family portrait done today. Your mother is starting to attract flies.”
That article stuck in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. I sort of wished that I could unread it. Here’s the link. Go ahead. Read it and enjoy the photos right before bed.
Both Andrew and Jack had their final baseball tournaments of the fall season today. I was with Jack. James went with Andrew. It was freezing. And windy. And cold. And frigid. Through three long games, I sat in my cheap, canvas chair, bundled up in 48 layers of coats and blankets and scarves and hats, looking like an Afghan refugee wearing everything I owned.
Then we went home and ate some calzones I found in the refrigerator. They were delicious. But it was pretty disconcerting when I told James that we’d eaten his leftovers from yesterday and he responded “what leftovers?”
ME: “The ones in the Vinny’s Pizza box in the fridge.”
JAMES: “I don’t know what leftovers you’re talking about and where’s Vinny’s Pizza?”
How likely is it that a stranger broke into our house and, rather than stealing our belongings, they stored their leftovers in our fridge? What if they’re planning to come back and get them for lunch tomorrow and we ate them? How inconsiderate of us!
Or what if burglars broke into our house, looked around and thought our stuff was so worthless that they felt sorry for us and decided to leave us some food?
Is that the kind of thing you file a police report about?
While Jack and I waited for James and Andrew to come home, we watched the over-the-top media event of Nik Wallenda walking across a high wire between two skyscrapers in Chicago. It was about 15 seconds of walking and eight years of announcers explaining what the wire was made of and interviewing his family and cameo appearances by Joel Osteen…ya know, to give the whole thing some much-needed class (ahem). The news reporter said that they’d feature selected tweets during the live broadcast. So I tweeted my heart out, hoping they’d feature one of mine. No luck.
So, I’ll feature them here.
@sanitywaiting “I sure hope they go over what the wire is made of a few more times.”
@sanitywaiting “Should we watch The Walking Dead or The Walking Idiot?”
@sanitywaiting “And now we go live to an interview with Nik’s third cousin by marriage.”
@sanitywaiting I’d like to push Joel Osteen out onto the wire.
@sanitywaiting “But first, let’s find out a little about what that steel cable is made of.”
@sanitywaiting My, Wallenda sure is good with a pole.
@sanitywaiting I hope Wallenda hasn’t been drinking.